


Fourth Times a Charm: Or Three Times Bucky Fell in Love, and One Time He Knew It

by StrikeTeamDelta (panicsdownpour)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), one part fluff mixed with one part angst and plenty of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9244646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicsdownpour/pseuds/StrikeTeamDelta
Summary: It came slow, then all at once. Or maybe James was just too close to see it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cairistiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cairistiona/gifts).



> This piece of BuckyNat fluff and angst was written for Cairistiona, for BuckyNat Secret Santa. 
> 
> I combined two prompts: 1. _I'd like to see Nat do something romantic for Bucky, perhaps early on in their budding modern-era relationship_
> 
> And 2. _I'd love to see your take on when MCU Bucky and Nat first start to fall in love._
> 
> because these two are totally the type to have everything go both ways, with Nat loving on Bucky as much as he loves on her; I'm also kind of a sucker for the early stages of love. So Fourth Time was born, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

It had been creeping up on Bucky for days. An intruder that slithered in and festered, biding it's time, until the mornings of waking with aching throat and a sniffle that his hot morning shower relieved gave way to a heavyset soreness in his muscles, a phantom ache just above his left elbow, and a cramp in his arm from leaning over the side of his bed to heave into the kitchen garbage bin. It was better than becoming permanently ensconced beside the toilet. The ring came promptly at 1:35 pm to the phone cradled on his nightstand, from the shrink they'd assigned him a few weeks earlier. It had been a condition brought up shortly after the time came around for him to come out of cryo, and either choose to go back under, or decide to slog it out and begin the uphill climb to reclaiming his mind from his memories, flawed and otherwise. He'd given written and verbal agreement to a small team whose sole job wasn't to track his every move but he was one of their responsibilities; since then, he'd shown up to every meeting, every check-in, every appointment. But he'd forgotten to check in, and so he picked up. No reason to worry them he might have gone off the rails.

The conversation was brief and to the point. Someone would be sent around in the evening to run a check on him- get a reading on how he was doing physically, mentally, and that would suffice as his check-in for the day. The arrangement was good enough for him; Bucky was allowed to mope around his apartment and lie in his bed playing dunk-the-tissue, waiting to pass out instead of having his emotions dissected in the chilly psychiatrist's office.

And so that was just what he did, despite the hunger that peeked out on occasion from behind the roiling nausea in his belly. The rest of the apartment was too chilly, his fever still burning when there was a hard three raps at his door. Reading the alarm clock beside his bed told him it was far too early for any scheduled visitor, and he was rarely surprised by anyone or anything there. Surprises were small and orchestrated in such a way that they were ready for how he might take said surprise. Surprises had proven not to be especially appreciated.

When the knocking wouldn't stop and the importance of answering finally settled in, Bucky rustled up the energy to crawl out from under the covers and stumble to his front door.

As he drew near, the small screen beside the door lit up to show him who had chose to darken his doorstep, today of all days.

The last person he expected to see peering back, arms crossed and gazing into the camera's eye expectantly, was SHIELD's very own Natasha Romanoff.

A slam of his hand against the door's command pad slid the heavy chrome door to the side.

"What are you doing here?"

The demand for information was considerably weakened by the congestion that made him sound pathetic. As if that was the difference between her coming or going.

Clad in a tee shirt and jeans, about as casual as could be, the redhead let herself in past him. Her smile spoke to her amusement, but her gaze held a concern he wasn't used to.

"I'm here on orders to nurse you back to health. Seeing as you look awful, I'm going to choose to ignore that welcome," Natasha announced cheerfully, lifting a paper bag for his notice "and instead find the microwave in this place."

Left seemingly without a choice in the matter, and not particularly inclined to argue with her back as she strode off, Bucky huffed out heavy breath and shut the door before following close behind.

"They sent you to check up on me? I didn't know you were around." Bucky questioned as he shuffled along to the kitchenette, rounding up the small hoard of dirty tissues with a sweep of his arm into the small garbage bin he fetched from the tiny bathroom around the corner. They'd spoken here and there after the whole rumble back in the States, but it wasn't until after he'd thawed out that she had begun coming around. Their friendship was slow to blossom, but the fact that she never pressed him when her questioning was met with silences made things easier. They'd reached a point of ease, that delicate space that new friends inhabited before they were certain the other could be entirely trusted. Friendly, but not too open.

The tension Natasha had brought in with her served to distract from his sore, protesting muscles, and it would continue to at least until he received an answer. It wasn't so much that he minded- more that he liked to be in the loop as much as he could when it was possible. It was so rarely possible. Instead he was met with the click and beeping of the microwave above the sink, and watched as Natasha searched his cupboards, coming away with two bowls and a pair of spoons clinking against the hard ceramic. Finally satisfied by her preparations, she turned his way and the corners of those red painted lips tugged themselves up into a tempered, albeit warm, smile.

"Nobody sent me. Business with T'Challa has me in town. But I might check in on you, every once in a while," she explained nonchalantly. "Before I left New York, I called ahead to see if your entourage thought you had time for visitors. The girl with the twists that's always giving you looks- she told me you said you had the plague, and she hadn't seen you at the offices today. So I figured that meant you might need some television and home cooking."

Bucky snorted before he could stop himself, nodding towards the plastic takeout containers spinning in the microwave behind her.

"That doesn't look like home cooking."

"Bamonte's gets cold after an eight hour flight," she countered, the obnoxious ding of the timer punctuating her statement, and earning him her back again.

Bamonte's. There was a name he hadn't heard in decades, but it rang a bell all the same. It had been his favorite restaurant as a kid, where his parents would haul the family for supper on birthdays or promotions at school. Two booths and half dozen tables, it was cramped and hot but it was the best in Brooklyn, or so his mother said. Besides her kitchen, of course.

This silenced the shivering man for a time, watching from a seat at the fold-down table while Natasha sloshed soup into both bowls, scowled but didn't fuss when she shooed him away to start the television for her. He'd find a stash of DVDs in the knapsack she handed off.

No sooner had he found the remote and settled himself under a throw he kept along the back of the couch -for those nights his bedroom felt too closed in- then Natasha was sitting beside him and offering a steaming bowl that smelled of chicken and garlic. Meatballs bobbed amidst the greens and specs of black pepper, the steam giving him his first decent breath in upwards of thirty-six hours. Taking it upon herself to choose the film since Bucky was otherwise occupied, Natasha fed the player the disc and turned down the lights before returning to a spot by his side with her own bowl drawn into her lap.

"Wedding soup. You could have lead with that when you barged in, you know?" Bucky muttered as he lifted a spoonful to his lips. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He just hoped it didn't upset his stomach any further; if it did, it'd still be worth it.

It was as close to home as he could get while holed up roughly seventy years and a whole ocean away.

"And you could thank me, Barnes. Just eat, would you? My favorite part is coming and I swear to God if you talk through it--" The threat was unfinished and idle, but he was rolling his eyes too hard to answer. "Seriously- next time I might think twice before bringing you Hollywood classics and food from halfway across the world," she half-whispered across the darkened room, nudging into his thigh with a socked foot.

From there it was a parade of "Indiana Jones" and "Back to the Future", films he had never seen but had heard of off of Steve's ever-growing catch-up list. The puking didn't ease up, and neither did the sniffling -which his guest so graciously brought out the tissues for- but when they weren't pausing the movie and he could concentrate again, funnily enough he found he was actually having a good time. Natasha's commentary was so well-timed it couldn't be annoying. Coming in the form of critique and play-by-plays of her favorite scenes, she whispered them all into his ear hushed so he wouldn't miss the audio. But what he enjoyed most were those lines muttered beneath her breath, when she was so entranced by the films that he knew the words were neither for his ears nor hers, really. These were the characters she loved most, the clips of script that drew her out of her head in a way that made her expressions honest, and he loved it. The wrinkle of concentration between her brows, tap of lithe fingers on her knee; he noticed them despite his interest in Mr. McFly's adventures, and soon enough he realized having her around when he felt like hell wasn't such a bad thing.

Somewhere between "The Breakfast Club" and the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man, he forgot he was supposed to be miserable.

Afternoon faded to evening, and aside from a visit from his scheduled check-in, their evening was more of the same. "Hollywood classics and food" as Natasha had so eloquently put it. The pair fell asleep alongside each other sometime in the early hours of the next morning, Bucky so worn out between illness and laughter that he didn't wake until long after Natasha must have left. He found his stomach had settled, his nose wasn't feeling as rebellious, and his place had been cleaned up, free of the crumpled tissues that had piled up sometime before sunrise. A note in blue ink on the back of a flier was waiting for him beside a prescription on the kitchen table when he ventured out.

Whether the neatly scrawled promise of return meant anytime soon or in a year's time, he wished he could be certain of.

Natasha wasn't half bad.

\--

Five months later and Bucky was hitting the pavement, ducking beneath view of a sensor that threatened to out his location and bring the intel mission crashing down around his ears. Pressed to the ground beside him, Natasha had a fist wrapped around a well-loved Glock 17 but looked as calm and cool as ever. The camera swiveled in its holder, towards the furthest doorway of the office floor, and the pair vaulted forwards; Natasha first, with Bucky behind as she slipped around a corner. Muffled footsteps moved across economy carpeting unhurried, the voices which moved with them carrying no tone of urgency or even matters of importance. Something about the previous night's hometown football game.

His heart beat hard but his head remained focused, an exercise in concentration under pressure one he had been working on for the better part of two months now in therapy sessions.

Ear piece buzzing to life, Natasha's voice was mostly clear behind the feedback.

"Stay close. Move when I say. Watch my back."

The office kitchen was immaculate, and as generic as one might expect. Nothing complicated or especially noteworthy, and not a camera in sight. But through the opposite doors was the passage to their objective- a computer system holding what they'd garnered was information that could bring a fist down on a budding homegrown terrorist network. The chance to work the mission gave Bucky a chance to burn off a little energy, hopefully quell his restlessness and lead him to the possibility of being useful again. On the right side of history, again.

So when Natasha moved, he moved steps behind her, soft and swift until his face was connecting with a faux oak cabinet and he was swallowing swears, working desperately to regain his footing while a pain shot through his hip. There was the crash of what sounded to be half the employee coffee mugs inside, the yells of booted men. The holographic simulation was draining away before he realized that Natasha had exchanged an expression of horror for one twisted into laughter, her hand thrown over her mouth when he looked up at her from where he'd slumped to the floor in exasperated defeat.

It wasn't the first time Bucky had forgotten his center of gravity had shifted with the loss of his arm and stumbled, but it was the first time he'd been laughed at for it. Normally there were assurances he was doing fine or his mistake was ignored all together out of an intentional politeness. But no, his partner all dressed up in her ops black suit was offering him a hand, lips planted firmly together in a failing attempt to quell her laughter.

"It's not funny, Romanoff. If this were real, we might both be dead right about now," he snarled once he was on his feet, no thanks to the offered help up. Rubbing at the bruise blossoming beneath his skin, he glared as the last of the simulation faded to leave them alone in a bare white room, a dull clicking sound emanating from the audio system wired through it.

A faint look of guilt passed along the woman's delicate features, only to fall victim again to the giggling.

"Barnes, come on. You have to admit it was pretty funny. Because we didn't die and I'm pretty sure the noise alerted half the mob we're coming for them."

"Natasha!"

"James."

"Natasha."

"James."

"...Fine," he finally conceded, when he could no longer fight against the ridiculous look on her face that he was sure was supposed to look more sorry than it did. If he was honest, with the initial grip of embarrassment and fear past them, it was a little funny. If he didn't laugh he would pitch a fit, so he chose to find a balm in her laughter, and if he was being painfully truthful, the complete honesty in the outburst was refreshing. Natasha had no kid gloves for him, and maybe it was what he needed.

Late that night Natasha would come by with a jumbo bag of frozen pizza rolls, ice his face with the package while the oven heated, and take it for dinner once his cheek was too numb for him to care anyway. Later on Steve would call from D.C., and he'd explain it with all seriousness, because Steve couldn't see the goofy smile her laughter drew, and any laughter might draw questions later.

But as he rubbed at the purple-ing spot and threw a balled up napkin that missed Natasha's curls, he considered that maybe the sting was worth it.

Rougher around the edges, but she wasn't half bad.

\--

When Natasha wasn't working state-side, she was in Wakanda keeping busy and absolutely not there for Bucky. He didn't mind in the least whether they spoke of what they were faster becoming or not. Labels were intimidating and he was just fine without them. Because at the end of many nights, he no longer found himself alone in bed, imagining stars to count because his bedroom had no windows. Instead he watched Natasha, curled like a cat into his side in the easy nights, when she didn't need her space. But when she did -when she needed to be her own more than his, keep her distance to feel like she could breathe- he could understand, and it went without explicit acknowledgement that their sleeping arrangements couldn't be so warm. She slept on the left side of the bed, so he could reach for her easily in the night, to stroke fingers through her hair or hold her close. They both interrupted the other with nightmares at intervals that never overlapped the others, by some miracle of fate, and in time he found his relief not in alcohol smuggled in or news programming until exhaustion over took memories of nightmares, but in tight embraces and choked confessions.

For Natasha such a level of openness came much slower, quieter, on a night when it was whimpering and not thrashing that woke him from a dead sleep. The sheets twisted around her, he could make out simple Russian, pleading in a way that he thought she must have been remembering much farther back then she'd ever talked of, maybe than she had ever recalled in waking hours.

Shaking her awake had been his first mistake half a year earlier, and so he waited and watched and hurt for her until she woke, looking younger than her 30-odd years. It was a long time before either spoke, staring through the darkness until she was crawling towards him, collapsing against his chest. Her breathing was shallow, labored, and he could feel the tears to dry them once the lullaby came to him.

Hydra had filled his head with a million useless thoughts, all in case something happened that might require knowledge that wasn't normally deemed useful. Pop trivia, the names of a thousand major artists, every Grammy winner since the award ceremony's inception.

Among all the useless was a Russian lullaby, one he picked from a cache of several. One that might not have mended the breaks she struggled with, but it filled the silence in a way that felt right. After she'd fallen asleep and he was just beginning to nod off, it came to him that being trusted this way, curiously vulnerable while finally the strong one of the couple, felt good. Safe. Right.

At what point she'd put his trust in him, he couldn't pin point, but it had happened and he hoped to God he never lost. He'd do anything to keep it.

Natasha was more than just "not half bad".

\--

"T'Challa says you guys getting all buddy-buddy is making him feel left out."

It was how the conversation about Natasha started, with an innocent enough comment. Steve is in Wakanda not for work but on a visit. He makes sure to drop in on Bucky from time to time. His visits are scheduled to look spontaneous, but he's too worried about his friend to leave his visits to whims.

Bucky twists his head to shake his hair out of his eyes, forgetting that Natasha gave him a 'long overdue' haircut last time she was over. But the motion was a habit, and so he did it before taking another bite of the hoagies Steve had brought along with him from Carnegie's back home.

Two hours later and the worst of what had been on Bucky's mind was bubbling up and out, spilling like the oil and vinegar that had long made his sandwich perfectly soggy.

"All this happened at a themed picnic she threw you? Call me crazy, but 'you're not half bad, you know that?' doesn't exactly sound all that alarming unless I'm missing something," Steve replied once Bucky's long-winded story was over, one that had spanned from the time he'd caught the flu to the previous week, that last day he'd seen Natasha before she was on a flight again.

"It meant...I think she thought it meant more," the darker haired man admitted slowly, careful in his wording. Dancing around the emotion that had crept into his unlabeled romantic plight with Natasha had become an exercise lately.

But Steve knew without saying -Natasha was his friend but Bucky was his brother- and so he replied simply as he watched with guarded gaze. He was pleased, but didn't want to overwhelm him. Giving away his blessing too early could scare him off.

"You gonna tell her?"

"It's complicated," came the reply, to which Steve shook his head and lifted a critical brow, the other speaking up again.

"We're not anything. Not really. We don't call it anything, anyway. So what's there to say?"

The blond sighed and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, sandwich forgotten.

"Slapping a label on it doesn't make it this or that. Just because she's not wearing your varsity jacket-"

"You think she should be?" Bucky quipped against the nerves, his friend breathing a laugh in reply.

"All I'm saying is, I'm happy for you. And maybe you should tell her. Like...tell her. You deserve something good. More than half good."

Bucky mulled it over for a long time, more than would be comfortable if they hadn't been friends for more years than he had fingers. When he spoke up his voice was steady, even if he was still undecided on whether the timing was right. At least he had one thing settled. Steve had a way of getting things right, nine times out of ten. And if this thing was love...maybe he did deserve it.

All the horrors he'd survived had left him with little. It was awful more than it wasn't, but Steve was a given so in this case... it left him with only her to lose.

You don't get lucky twice, was the thought that came to him, as clear as the last time his father had said it to him when he'd won a pair of Cubs tickets as a kid. So he would tell Natasha, and he'd tell her straight. Where was the harm? If there was anything he knew about Natasha Romanoff -and God knew he'd come to know quite a lot- it was that she didn't scare easy. Yeah, he'd take the chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Planning on releasing two related pieces within the next few days- one with the details of the lovely picnic Natasha arranged, the other giving you a peek at what came after Steve and Bucky's heart-to-heart. So if you enjoyed, make sure to check back!


End file.
